Ladyboy Butterfly Flaunts Curves at Bangkok Party: London Stage

By Warwick Thompson -
Jan 10, 2011

In traditional opera productions,
Madam Butterfly’s friends don’t go by the names of Britney,
Whitney or GaGa. Nor does Butterfly carry a fabulous designer
handbag. Come to think of it, she doesn’t usually have male
genitalia, either.

A new production, set among Bangkok Ladyboys, is the latest
venture at London’s Little Opera House” in the King’s Head
pub-theater. In this small space, fledgling directors and young
singers can try out mad ideas, and see which ones work.

The “Ladyboy Butterfly” starts promisingly. Adam
Spreadbury-Maher’s production takes place in a chic 30th-floor
Bangkok apartment. There’s a huge picture of Helmut Newton-style
mannequins. An aura of sex and commodification hovers.

This is where airline pilot Pinkerton brings the 15-year-
old kathoey Butterfly, a cute boy-girl who looks pert in all the
right places. Whether he’s had the chop, we never find out. It
doesn’t seem to worry Pinkerton.

With her great boob job, tight white dress and cute pumps,
Butterfly seems naive though hardly innocent. Her ladyboy
friends drink, giggle and flirt lasciviously with Pinkerton and
his pal Sharpless.

Through Act 1, it’s a lot of fun. Of a triple-cast show, I
saw Margaret Cooper, who was an impressive, petite-framed and
vocally assured Butterfly. Mario Sofroniou (Pinkerton) offset
his wooden acting with a pretty voice and secure upper register.
The big love duet, accompanied by piano, viola and clarinet, had
sweep and even grandeur.

Where’s the Baby?

If you know the story of Puccini’s “Madam Butterfly”
you’re probably thinking “Hold on... doesn’t she have
Pinkerton’s baby in Act 2?”

Right. That’s actually the least of the increasingly
laughable implausibilities in the second part of the show, which
is set three years after the first.

The child turns out to be Butterfly’s nephew, the son of
her sister who died of AIDS. Why she thinks Pinkerton should
care two hoots about this poor waif (portrayed on stage by a
puppet, another misjudgement) is never made clear.

Butterfly believes Pinkerton will return to her, after
three years without so much as a phone call or e-mail. Didn’t
she get the hint? She’s meant to be innocent, not mentally
defective, for heaven’s sake. And who paid the rent?

Her ideas about the nobility and moral beauty of Americans,
which she expounds to Sharpless, stretch one’s patience too.
Hasn’t she watched American TV in all her 18 years? And so on,
and so on, until the car crash of tortuous motivations
eventually skids to a halt.

You know what? I didn’t mind. If directors can’t screw up
in a small studio space, where can they? How else will they
learn? Mistakes are the best teaching tool.

English National Opera has a policy of employing
inexperienced directors on its huge stage, and the results are
usually as much fun as a trip to the abattoir. If the results
might be iffy at the tiny King’s Head, at least it’s cheap and
you can take your drinks in. Bravo to that. Rating: **.